


Over the Bounding Main

by a_shepherd



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Barrayaran Weather, Cultural Differences, Debunking Urban Legends, F/M, Sailing, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2013-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-24 01:11:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/933345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_shepherd/pseuds/a_shepherd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which The Truth about Aral’s 'supposed' lack of sailing skills is revealed, and a romantic, if soggy afternoon is enjoyed by our favorite regent and his lady love. Huzzah!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Over the Bounding Main

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by ["Man Can Drive A Starship..."](https://archiveofourown.org/works/622038) by [RogerStenning](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RogerStenning/pseuds/RogerStenning). 



> which was itself inspired by:  
> Philomytha’s “Vorkosigan Sousleau”  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/124143

     Weather, on the whole, even after a little more than five years here, was a concept Cordelia was admittedly still getting used to, unable to understand how Barrayarans could be so blasé about it, especially the storms. God, the storms! The howling blizzards of winter and the violent thunderstorms that seemed to blow up out of nowhere the rest of the year, even rattling the stone house at Vorkosigan Surleau that she thought of as rock solid, were a physical menace she’d had no experience at all with. Even run-of-the-mill thunderstorms still gave her the willies. Oh, sure, she knew all about weather intellectually - all Betan survey team members studied meteorology, and a few of them had actually experienced a bit of decidedly non-Betan weather, but nothing on a Barrayaran scale as far as intensity and frequency. Up close and personal, weather was a whole new ball game! At first, Aral found her apprehension during storms highly amusing, but sensitive soul that he was, he quickly realized she was genuinely disturbed by them, and did his best to allay her fears, comforting her both physically and emotionally. True to his reputation as a man who could manage to make any situation work for him, he never lost a chance to cuddle (and beyond, if possible) in the process. She had come to appreciate and even (sort of) look forward to the vicissitudes of Barrayaran weather for that reason alone.

     Aral, in his Admiral Vorkosigan persona, so she’d been told, was so much at home on the bridge of a starship, he seemed almost an intrinsic part of it. As Lord Regent Vorkosigan, when riding herd over the CoC, he took firm command of those of those nearly fossilized dinosaurs and the occasional young right or left wing firebrands, relentlessly dragging them kicking and screaming into the brighter, more progressive Barrayaran future he was working so tirelessly to create. Heh! Watching him action in the council chambers always put her in mind of what cat-wrangling must surely look like. With the combination of his charisma, military reputation, and consummate political and people skills, he made it seem so effortless. She knew full well it was anything but. He worked hard at it. Very, very hard. He was so masterful in those spheres that it took her quite some time to come to the realization that despite his image as an intellectual urban aristocrat and professional soldier, Aral Vorkosigan was equally - if not more so - at home in the great outdoors, equally accomplished, and and he enjoyed it a hell of a lot more.       

     Looking back, Cordelia realized she should have figured it out after their forced time together on the planet now known as Sergyar, but she mistakenly put his admirable wilderness survival skills down to Barrayar’s famously rigorous military training, renowned throughout the galaxy. She remembered thinking at the time that if the Barrayaran armed forces put even their blue bloods through such intensive conditioning and training, the populace of the Nexus worlds were in deep shit in one-on-one situations with any of their troops. She later learned that while Barrayaran military men were required to be in superb physical condition, and most were in varying degrees, even though no longer strictly military, out of lifelong habit, Aral was still exceptionally fit. Even for a man _under_ forty!

     Back on Beta Colony, The Great Outdoors was something to be avoided if all possible. It was yet another bit of Barrayar she was still having difficulty assimilating. Aral, on the other hand, loved being out in it. All of it! Out on and in the water - either sailing, fishing, or swimming,. He thought nothing of hours-long hikes though the densely forested mountains, in all kinds of weather, just to reach a favored picnic spot! And of course there wasn’t just _one_ favorite picnic spot - oh, no, that would be _too_ easy. This was his beloved Vorkosigan Surleau, after all. There was The Favorite Spot With the Best View of the Lake, which had subcategories: summer, fall, and winter. There was The Favorite Spot for Viewing the Mountains, which also had its own subcategories: morning (her personal favorite), fall, and snowcapped. There was also The Best Picnic Spot in A Tree, a treehouse built by the young Aral and his late brother. It had been his favorite as a boy, since he and his brother had somehow managed to keep it secret from his father, with the help of sympathetic armsmen. Time and the elements had taken their toll on it, with little left except part of the platform they had built it on, but after his “retirement” he had painstakingly rebuilt it to picnic perfection, with a clever lift to hoist her up, since tree climbing was not in her skill set. He, on the other hand, clambered up like a monkey. Since their marriage, though, he claimed his ‘new favorite’ was The Best Secluded Picnic Spot, for getting as far away as possible from his ever-present security’s watchful eyes ( _entirely_ away was totally impossible), and oh, lord, was it ever!

     He had found (or remembered, from his youth in these hills) a smallish, level spot, fairly high up in the mountains, with a waterfall near a swift stream that rippled and gurgled its way down to the lake. With its moss-covered rocks in the tiny sun-dappled glade - _very romantic_ \- it reminded her so much of their first days together on Sergyar that she caught herself watching the sky for Vampire Balloons on their first visit! Whenever they were lucky enough to find themselves at the lake house in the summer or fall, Aral would make some time there a priority, even if it was just half an hour. He’d grab a bottle of wine, personally raid the kitchen to fill a large picnic basket, and haul out an ancient, shabby-but-clean, plaid woolen blanket. Miles possibly had been conceived in their Sergyar-inspired hideaway. There were several other possibilities, of course, but she liked to think it _had_ been there - it gave the spot even more of a romantic cachet. She loved everything about it - the babbling stream, the beauty, the seclusion, the fact that he’d made the same connection to it as she did and brought her there because of it. Behind that Perfect Soldier facade of his beat the heart of a romantic with the soul of a poet. She loved everything about it, really, except for the long, arduous hike up to it. It generally made her feel terribly guilty watching the appalling energetic Aral bounding up and down the mountainside carrying all their picnic gear himself. He’d even offered to carry _her_ on several occasions, which made her feel even worse.

     With Aral finding himself with an exceeding rare bit of downtime, a lull in the imperial action so to speak, and the newly mobile five-year old Miles spending a few days at the shore with Alys and Ivan, they’d headed to the lake house. The estrangement with his father now resolved, Aral seemingly couldn’t get enough of the place. He loved it here, and missed it terribly during his paternally imposed exile. She’d missed it, too - the few short months they’d been together here before the regency was the longest, happiest, angst-free period she’d spent on Barrayar so far, and she had a feeling it might always be. Their honeymoon, such as it was...

     The early fall weather had been stunningly perfect - warm, sunny days and cool, crisp nights, with the foliage nearing its peak autumnal coloration. Over ImpSec’s objections (“My Lord, the weather reports....”), Aral decided to take the sailboat out, arguing forcefully it would probably be for the last time this year, and what the hell was the point of being near-emperor anyway if a man couldn’t take his own boat out once in a great while (wink, wink, nudge, nudge). The Vorkosigan armsmen indulged him shamefully, they really did, despite their professionalism otherwise, keeping their distance just enough to allow him at least the illusion of privacy. They knew that aside from a long-distance sniper up in the hills (and no amount of security could protect him from _that_ ) he’d be able to handle himself well enough on the lake. The newbies among them always had a good laugh when they heard that. After all, it was common knowledge that even though the man could undeniably fly a starship - _he wasn’t an admiral for nothing!_ \- he had a pronounced tendency to capsize the damn sailboat nearly every time he took it out, keeping his minders for the day on edge. The senior men just chuckled knowingly.

     For the first hour after they departed the dock, she was anxiously anticipating their now seemingly ritual capsizing. Aral, face shining in the sun, had the boat further north on the lake than she’d ever been in what was planned to be a circumnavigation of the lake. If she hadn’t been so intent on watching his happy face, glistening with sweat and spray, she would have noticed the northern sky sooner, darkening unbelievably fast, as massive thunderheads ballooned up. They swelled ominously, twice as high as the looming mountains, with frequent, ferocious lightning crackling along the mountain tops in advance of the precipitation, which followed very shortly after. The wind howled (she’d never _really_ understood that phrase till now), the sky darkened even more until it looked more like early evening, and the rain lashed at them from several directions at once, making it impossible to see more than a few feet in any direction. The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees in less than ten minutes, another thing that NEVER EVER happened on Beta Colony. Or anywhere else she’d ever been, either...

     The storm was easily the worst she’d experienced in her relatively few years on Barrayar, made all the more terrifying because they were OUT IN IT, so exposed, with no shelter other than the bright yellow slicker Aral had given her to wear over her sweater at the start of the trip. The churning water heaving beneath her feet set up sympathetic vibrations in her stomach making it heave in time with the waves. To calm herself, she focused on watching Aral. _He won’t let anything bad happen to us_ was part prayer, part wishful thinking. His command of the boat was strong and sure. Despite her fear, she could see he was plainly exhilarated by the physical challenge - calm, confident, in his element. Aral seemed somehow a part of that wild landscape (should that be seascape?) in his broad-shouldered, bare-chested glory, feet firmly planted on the rolling deck. The wind and rain whipped his hair, lashing his face. He looked - _incredibly_ \- easily ten years younger. Those hard muscles she knew so well rippled tautly as he forced the vessel to bend to his will, becoming an extension of him, besting nature’s onslaught, laughing - _literally_ \- in the face of the elements. His laughter caught her off guard - it was so free and joyous!

     _My God_ , her first thought was, _I have married me a madman!_ Even though badly shaken by the ferocity of the storm, she couldn’t help but be gobsmacked by the combination of sheer strength and stamina plus superb technical skills he displayed. Not that she was an expert on sailing skills, but it didn’t take one to see that his handling of the craft throughout the storm was the result of a great deal of experience and skill, as well as an unflappable mindset. Incredulously, as she was meeping mentally, Aral seemed totally relaxed, as if taking his father’s old groundcar out for leisurely drive on the back roads of the District! _Eh_ , she thought grimly, _this might be just a tad less harrowing than the District’s long-neglected byways, though..._

     After what seemed to her like hours but was probably no more than twenty minutes, Aral guided the boat to a dock in a small village on the northern tip of the lake, still grinning ear to ear. The worst of the storm seemed to be over - all that was left of it was moderately heavy wind and rain, with distant thunder now far to the south. He had put on an old, moth-eaten, hand-knitted pullover sweater - the Rules of Barrayaran Sex were clear when it came to shirtless men in public. Laughing as they ran along the dock, he held his own yellow slicker over her head, leading her to the covered front entrance of a small tavern on the shore. Before entering, he shook his head like a drenched dog, sending a spray of water her way. Apologizing profusely and laughing uproariously, he wrapped her in his hard, strong arms and held her for a long moment _(a safe port in a storm came to her mind)_ , as he slowly came down from his adrenaline rush. His broad cheekbones were still flushed, his eyes danced merrily, his whole being seemed to vibrate with excitement and energy. She hated to see it come to an end. She fervently wished she could give him more of whatever made him like this - so _alive_ , relaxed, _so_   _happy_. They rode out the remains of the storm over a simple but excellent country-style meal, in front of a cozy, roaring fire, having the place to themselves, courtesy of the weather.

     After eating, ensconced in an isolated booth featuring plush, leather upholstered seating and fittings designed to resemble a snug ship’s cabin, they sat with steaming mugs of coffee. A woolen throw woven in ethnic designs materialized from somewhere, and was now draped over their shoulders. She fussed with her hair, now dripping only slightly, bemoaning its disheveled state to Aral’s great amusement. Cordelia realized with a start that she, too, was still coming down off an adrenaline-fueled high - although hers was induced by terror - as she settled comfortably in his arms and eventually calmed down completely, rehashing the experience.

     _“That_... was truly amazing!” she purred, snuggling into the hollow between his chin and shoulder, one of her favorite spots in the known universe.

     “As storms go, it _was_ rather impressive, I’d have to agree. I haven’t been out in one like that in, oh… well... pretty much forever. Probably not since I was still at school.”

     She punched him playfully on his unoccupied shoulder. “Not the weather, love. You! Granted, as a native of The Sandbox, I’ve never seen _anything_ like it, so I was bound to be impressed, but the way you rode it out, made that boat do what you wanted it to do no matter what the storm threw at you...” She was gushing like a star-struck schoolgirl, she knew, but couldn’t help herself. “You were... oh, what’s the word I want? Ah! _Magnificent_ , yes. You were magnificent!”

     Aral, her magnificent Aral, snorted derisively, crinkle-eyed, then laughed as if it were the funniest thing he’d heard in years. Cordelia was loving the fact that he was so wonderfully relaxed and enjoying himself so tremendously. She loved the look of him when he was like this - the years seemed to fall away, so boyish and energized was he. The effect was positively electric! Shivering deliciously, she realized she was more than a little turned on, and the thought sent another wave of shivers through her, causing him to tenderly rearrange the blanket around her more snugly, and tuck a wayward lock of damp hair behind her ear. _Who knew sailing could be so damn sexy?_ she thought. _After the terrifying bits, anyway..._

     “Magnificent? Oh, surely not!” Aral’s laughter had subsided but his eyes were still dancing madly, his voice the warm, velvet rumble that made her spine tingle. “I’ve been sailing these waters since I was a small boy when my family first came here after the war. I had to prove I could handle all kinds of weather before they would let me take the boat out on my own.”

     In the long list of culturally baffling things she had heard after coming to Barrayar, this newest revelation was near the top. “Your parents _allowed_ you to sail as a young child? _In storms? Alone?”_ she fairly shrieked, completely aghast.

     “Why not? Aral asked. “Anyone can sail, given a boat in good condition and the proper instruction. They made sure I had the best, and plenty of it. Starting with a much smaller boat, of course.”

     “Of course,”she whimpered.

     “And I’ll do the same for Miles when he’s a bit older, now that he’s got swimming down pat. He’ll take to it quickly, you’ll see.”

     The thought of another manic mariner in the family made her shudder.

     His voice was hopeful. “If my schedule allows, I hope to be able to teach him myself. If he can handle it physically, that is. I’ll make sure he’s completely competent before he goes out alone. It takes considerably more skill to be able to right a boat after capsizing than merely sailing on calm waters. Hell, a _child_ can do _that.”_

     _“What?_ Do you mean to tell me you’ve just been _showing off_ all this time?” No doubt about it now, she was shrieking. “You’ve been dumping us _on purpose?!?!?”_

     “Ah. Well... I wouldn’t exactly put it _that_ way…”

     “Exactly which way _would_ you put it?”

     “Um... trying to play the hero, rescuing his fair maid from the briny deep, perhaps?” He looked so much like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar that it was hard for her to keep a straight face, despite her soggy indignation.

     “Or…” he went on disarmingly, “possibly... just trying to keep my nautical skills sharp should I ever need ‘em? Like I did today, for instance?”

     She gave his hard shoulder another thump, which she regretted immediately, wincing as she shook her hand to regain some feeling, “You fiend! That water is nearly _always_ freezing!”

     “Freezing? Oh, hardly, dear Captain. Hah! I’ll have to take you out when it is. Frozen, that is. Ice boat sailing - you’ll love it!” Laughing at her horrified expression, Aral clarified, “You won’t be able to fall _in_ the water. Only _on_ it. Unless, of course,” he added after a thoughtful pause, “we, um, hit a patch of thin ice.”

     Cordelia shot him a tart look she hoped conveyed her righteous skepticism. “You do realize, don’t you, love, that that description’s _not_ terribly encouraging…”

     “I suppose not,” he said amiably. “Not to change the subject, but in regards to my so-called lack of sailing skills... well, you can hardly blame a man for taking any chance that will result in some major snuggling action later, can you? I’ve waited a _very_ long time for opportunities like this, y’know. I am not known as a master strategist for nothing!”

     Aral unleashed The Grin to its usual effect - she was totally unglued. Melting, as it were! “You silver-tongued devil, you.” She threw in the towel. In this mood, Aral was just too irresistible! “Well, as long as it’s _you_ doing the dumping and snuggling, a girl can hardly say no.” Maneuvering herself into his lap, she cooed in her best come-hither voice, “Come here, sailor... I do believe I’m feeling a bit of a chill.”

     This was followed by some vigorous tussling and raucous laughter from both of them. Once they come up for air and out from under the throw and snuggled up, she sighed, shivering (but not from the cold) as he nuzzled her neck.

     “Ooh, Admiral Vorkosigan, sir. I’ll give you ten minutes to stop,” she giggled.

     Aral growled, low and gravelly, “Start the countdown, dear Captain.”

     She snickered, he barked, and they both went back undercover, literally. She paused ever so briefly to say a mental prayer of thanks for blessedly discreet armsmen and the establishment’s politely accommodating proprietors.

After an exhilarating, exhaustive and breathless bout of tickling, lip locking, earlobe gnawing, and generally carrying on like a pair of horny adolescents under cover of the blanket, she and Aral finally settled back in the cozy nook with another cup of wonderful coffee, she on his lap with his arms around her, the blanket now a snug cocoon around them.

     She mused, “Do your armsmen and those ImpSec fellows know you actually _can_ sail that thing? I’d hate to think they really believe we’re in any real danger whenever you take the helm. The poor dears must nearly have a heart attack every time they watch you dump the two of us in the drink like that.”

     Aral cleared his throat. “Eh. Well, I _have_ heard rumors to the effect that they actually place wagers on how long it will take before I do.” Chortling, “If it’s any consolation, the older armsmen know. They like to scare the hell out of the new men and the ImpSec boys by not letting them in on it. An initiation rite, of sorts, as Esterhazy calls it. They do figure it out on their own, though. Eventually.” He chuckled, then added with a bemused expression, “Although it did take Simon an uncommonly long time to catch on, as I recall. Oddly enough, he _still_ won’t go out on the lake with me!”

     “Heh! Imagine that…” Cordelia looked at him, his hair windblown and still a bit damp, practically glowing with pleasure. Clearly, sailing was something he enjoyed enormously, but sadly, infrequently. She’d have to see what she could to enable him to be able do it more often. Whether or not she would sail _with_ him was still debatable.

     The early adrenaline was nearly out of her system now. “This sailing... what’s the appeal for you, if I might ask?”

     “Aside from the purely physical challenge, d'you mean?” He, too, had lost a lot of his almost giddy excitement of earlier. “That’s a large part of it, true. I always feel so _free_ out there. There’s no one needing my urgent attention... yesterday. No idiots who have wandered in from the shallow end of the gene pool seemingly with the sole purpose of making my life miserable. Politics doesn’t exist out there. The wind and waves don’t give a damn who my father is, or who my great-grandfather was, or the syllable in front of my name. It’s quiet and peaceful. Well, unless it’s storming, of course,” he laughed, warm and rumbly. “There’s just the sound of the wind in the sails and the boat gliding over the water.”

     He paused, looking wistfully out the rain-streaked window, toward the open water. “A dream I’ve always had since I was a boy has been to acquire a yacht someday and sail around both the north and south continents. The summer we were married and I was _officially_ retired, I actually was fool enough to think that I - we - just might be able to pull it off. The regency put an end to _that_ notion. I’m fairly resigned to the fact now that it will probably always be nothing more than a pipe dream.” Days like today will probably have to wait until I actually _do_ retire for good. If and when that happens….” With a sigh, his attention and his gaze turned back to her.

     “Mostly, though, I do it because it’s just me against the elements. A fair fight... something I’ve never been able to get anywhere else on Barrayar. Or anywhere else, for that matter. There was always my father’s reputation, my great-grandfather’s, and then my own, getting in the way. A fair fight, though - that’s what I want - what I’ve always wanted - to prove myself. That’s always been a constant for me, since I was a kid. Out on the water, usually I win. Occasionally, I don’t.”

     “What happens when you don’t?”

     “After an unplanned dunking, I right the ship for real then. So the frequent practice is necessary. I hate to lose!”

     “Oh,” softly, very much taken aback. “I had no idea, love. That’s all so very... deep. And quite telling.”

     “You think so?” Eyebrows waggling and grinning impishly, there were traces of the day’s laughter still lingering in his voice. “Ready for the return trip, dear Captain? We’ll make a sailor of you yet!”

     “Eep!” Cordelia dissolved laughing into his warm embrace. “Don’t bet on it!”

**Author's Note:**

> I realize the title usually refers to the open ocean, but imagine Long Lake as really, really big, like Lake Superior or some such. When you’re out on the Great Lakes in a small boat in a storm, there’s VERY little difference!


End file.
